


Drums Like Rolling Thunder

by ASongofIceandHope



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Eventual Smut, F/M, Sherman's March - Freeform, Slavery Warning, Yankee Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 07:38:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11846982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASongofIceandHope/pseuds/ASongofIceandHope
Summary: The War has taken plenty from Sansa Lannister. And now as Union soldiers get closer and closer to her husband's plantation home of Casterly Rock, her husband grows even colder to her. When the Yankees arrive on her doorstep, she didn't realize what the War Between the States would give her.*American Civil War AU*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So a few notes before we begin:  
> Joffrey is a Lannister in this, not a Baratheon. He's probably still Jaime's but that's not important to the plot of this story.   
> There is like only one time Sansa really speaks with dialogue to one of Joffrey's slaves; I'm trying to treat the subject of slavery as delicately as I can because I really don't want to offend anyone!  
> Jon doesn't appear in the first chapter; he probably will in the second.
> 
> We don't have a lot of historical AUs here so I thought I would contribute one.

_December 1, 1864_

Sansa sat in her favorite chair on the long porch in front of The Rock. Rumor had it that Yankee soldiers were traveling toward Savannah, leaving a scorched earth behind them. They wouldn't be long now, some of the other wives from nearby plantations tittered over the bitter herbs they now boiled for tea. Unlike the others, Sansa was relieved. It had been 1860 when she'd married her monstrous husband, Joffrey Lannister. She had been a bright-eyed girl, barely sixteen, when she had left her childhood home in Massachusetts as the new Mrs. Lannister. Joffrey had been twenty, and a charming student at Harvard. She hadn't known how horrid he was until they had reached Casterly Rock Plantation, and she witnessed firsthand how sadistically he treated his slaves. Sansa’s own father, Eddard Stark, was an abolitionist preacher, and she shared his views and disgust toward the practice of owning other human beings. When she had been newly married, she had tried to reason with Joffrey to at least show more compassion with the slaves that worked the cotton and tobacco fields, but he had raised a hand to her at the suggestion.

Sometimes she couldn't believe what a stupid girl she had been to believe he loved her. 

“Where is my darling wife?!” Joffrey drawled from inside. Sansa didn't have to smell him or look at him to know he was drunk again. The menfolk had taken to drink even more frequently since word of Sherman’s March reached their parts, and Joffrey had been among them. 

The sound of staggering steps and boots on the hardwood floors of the entry hall made Sansa turn. Joffrey was certainly drunk; his waistcoat and cutaway had long since been discarded, and his overalls hung from his trousers.

“You're drunk, Joff,” Sansa said calmly. 

“Aw, no, sweetheart,” he snickered. “Just drank a little down at the Clegane’s.” 

The Clegane family lived down the river a ways, and were good distillers. Joffrey reeked of their whiskey. He pulled Sansa to her feet from her chair and danced around with her in his arms, humming “Dixie.” She kept as much distance from him as she could; bile rose in her throat the longer she had to smell him. 

Joffrey fancied himself a true patriot, even though he had sent one of their slaves in his stead to serve in the Confederate army. Sansa’s own brother had been drafted, and Robb had fought valiantly with the 11th Massachusetts. He had died the summer of 1863 at Gettysburg. If what Jon Umber had written back home was true, Robb had died under the summer sun in the cover of a peach orchard. Sansa found it fitting; her dearly beloved brother had always loved peaches. Joffrey had mocked her for weeks after he passed, saying he wished he had been the one to shoot him. Because the war was going on, Sansa hadn't been allowed to travel home to be with her family, but she promised herself she would go to Gettysburg someday and lay lilies on Robb’s grave. They had been lucky, as far as some families went; Robb had tagged his name and hometown to the inside of his uniform so when his body had been found they'd known who to contact.

“You aren't dancin’ like you did on our wedding night, darling,” Joffrey pointed out as he pulled away from her. “You thinking of that dead brother of yours again? Won't be long before they’ll be drafting the other one. How old is Bran again?”

It had been so long since she'd seen any of her family that she had to think for a moment. “He’d be sixteen,” she replied softly. “Sixteen this past August.” She didn't dare tell Joffrey that the war would long be over before Bran could fight; not a single man around them could face the reality that the North was going to win the war. Sansa was delighted, in secret. She would fly an American flag from her bedroom window, and burn the monstrous stars and bars Joffrey hung proudly in their parlor. 

One of the house slaves came and informed them that supper was ready. Sansa thanked her by name and moved past Joffrey into the house. 

Supper was quiet, as it usually was. They had no children, despite being married for four years. As of late, the lack of trying stemmed from Sansa’s disgust at Joffrey. When Robb died, she had shut herself away in her bedroom for weeks on end, and when she finally wanted to face Joffrey his incessant taunts and teasing only dulled her affection for him. 

It was near three months after word had come from Gettysburg that Sansa had decided that she had never loved Joffrey. Her mind had simply been filled with fairytales and stories of chivalry and knights. 

When their places at the table had been cleared, Joffrey retired to his study where Sansa knew he would drink himself into a stupor. She went to her bedroom and prepared for bed. Sansa never had any slaves help her; when in Massachusetts, Sansa had dressed herself and she did the same at Casterly Rock. It had sent some of the women into a flutter when she first had told them when she arrived, but they eventually had found her “Yankee independence” endearing. 

Once in her nightgown, Sansa brushed her hair out with her silver-handled boar-bristle hairbrush. It was from New York City, and one of the finest things Sansa had owned before marrying Joffrey. 

Her bed awaited her, and Sansa climbed into it, nestling under her blankets and drifting off to sleep. 

*****

The following morning, she woke at the crack of dawn. Sansa bathed and dressed, for she had some womenfolk from the nearby plantations coming for tea and she would have to look presentable. After breakfast, the first of her guests began to arrive. Pulling up in a fine carriage was Margaery Baratheon; her husband Tommen now managed her father’s plantation of Highgarden. Then came Cersei, Joffrey’s mother who had remarried after the death of Joffrey’s father and now lived at Storm’s End. Last of their party was Gilly Tarly, and one of Sansa’s dearest friends; she was a Yankee like Sansa, but from the frontier states. 

The four ladies all sat around in the parlor as tea was served. Sansa fluttered her fan absentmindedly as they all chattered amongst themselves.

“Tommen believes we ought to head south, on out of these parts,” Margaery confessed. “What with the Yankees on their way to Savannah and all that.” Sansa shook her head and stopped using her fan.

“You'll run right into them if you make much progress. They say General Sherman has spread his men far and wide to scorch the earth of Georgia,” she stated. 

“And you'd know all about the Yankees, what with your late brother being one,” Cersei sniffed.

Sansa bit her tongue. She could not stand her mother-in-law, but somehow Cersei always ended up invited to tea. Part of her suspected Joffrey went to visit her every time she made plans with her women friends and informed her. “I've not had word from any Yankee soldier,” Sansa dismissed. “Not even when my dearly departed brother was alive.” 

“Well they'll be on our doorsteps soon enough,” Margaery complained. 

Sansa said nothing more and sipped the bitter boiled herbs from her fine china teacups. After tea had been served, the other ladies departed for their respective homes. She saw their absence as the perfect opportunity to stroll along the yard. As was her nature, she greeted every one of Joffrey’s slaves and spoke to them as equals. It was how she was brought up, and she never forgot it. 

Casterly Rock sat on a tributary of the Savannah River. Its location gave Joffrey a convenient way to ship cotton and tobacco to the coast, and allowed Sansa some of the loveliest views in all the south to contemplate her world. She sat down on the ground, hands digging into the red clay dirt, and she looked out over the small waterway that curled along eastern side of the plantation. Her mind wandered to the approaching Union men. Rumor had it they spared no man or woman as they went, and freed any slaves they came upon. It made her nervous; lest they dared speak to her and heard her New England accent, they would simply think her another insipid southern woman. And then what would happen to her? She did not fancy her Yankee boys rapists, but war made monsters of even the gentlest of men. 

Sansa wondered sometimes if she would have been happier with Joffrey if she had given him a child or two. Not a son, but a daughter, perhaps. A perfect little daughter who looked just like her and would be hers to love and teach and cherish. She would never admit it, but she knew she was smarter than Joffrey even though he had gone to Harvard. It had been a “family tradition;” his grandfather, father, and uncle all had attended before him. But Sansa’s father had attended Yale, and had taught all of his children the classics. Sansa could read the Bible in Latin and Greek, and had a strong head for figures. Joffrey only seemed to have a strong head for drink. It would have brought her great pleasure, she thought, to pass on her knowledge to a daughter. 

“Miss Sansa, you know you shouldn't be out here!” Joffrey’s manservant, Daniel, scolded. “Yankee scouting parties have been spotted all round here!” Sansa nodded and rose to her feet, brushing her dirt-covered hands on her dark skirt. The thought made her think of her sweet sister Arya, who had recently married a young solider by the name of Waters. Arya had never been ladylike. 

“I apologize, Daniel,” she stated as he walked her back up to the house. “It was just getting rather stuffy indoors.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Sansa. Master’s been looking for you; best get on and go find him.”

With a nod, Sansa slipped inside the massive old house. She knew Joffrey would likely be in the parlor, nursing a tumbler of bourbon. Bourbon was always his afternoon drink. He was dressed in a dandy fashion, with fine trousers and a colorful waistcoat and necktie. His light-colored cutaway was thrown haphazardly onto the burgundy velvet sofa. “How was your tea with the womenfolk? Are they all aflutter like the hens they are?” he questioned. 

“They have been more than vocal with their fears,” she replied. Sansa sat on the end of a chaise, which was upholstered in the same deep velvet of the sofa. They had such fine furniture; much finer than the furniture she had grown up with as a minister’s daughter. 

“And where does my wife stand?” He turned and looked at her, and Sansa could see the accusation shining in his emerald eyes. 

“I am of the north, but I will not stand for my home being threatened,” she answered. “You know, Joff, I've given it some thought; I know you resent me for not having given you a child, and… and you are not wrong to blame me for my own shortcomings. With that in mind, I do think I would like to start trying for a baby. Perhaps not right away, but when the war is over and we all can eat well and hearty again and there's no fear of soldiers on our doorstep…”

Joffrey said nothing for a very long time. “If the south wins the war, I will oblige you,” he stated. “But if your Yankee dogs come pounding on our door… you can forget about children. You can forget about me. I’ll leave you here for Sherman’s men to find. No doubt you'll get that baby you so want.” A laugh escaped his lips, and he walked up to her, kissing her forehead coldly.

It was times like those that Sansa wished that she had stayed in Massachusetts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Union Colonel Jon Targaryen leads a scouting party ahead of the Army of Georgia as they continue their march to Savannah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the chapter of introduction for Jon; I apologize now if I got some historical details wrong. Also, to fix the whole cousin incest thing, Jon is Rhaegar and Elia's son.
> 
> Also, he sees Sansa for the first time in this chapter, but they don't meet officially until chapter 3.

_December 7, 1864_

Jon Targaryen sat on his mount just south of Waynesboro, Georgia. Even in December, Georgia seemed oppressively hot to the New York City native. Jon had written home to his brother Aegon, complaining of the heat. Everyone back home in New York City society always remarked that there were never two more different brothers than Aegon and Jaehaerys “Jon” Targaryen. Their father, Rhaegar, was part of the Tammany Hall political machine, and while his older son had taken to politics like a fish to water, the younger had always been a fighter. Aegon was a true Democrat, educated at Columbia University in New York, and was a lawyer. Everyone assumed he would follow in their father’s footsteps. Jon, on the other hand, had been educated at West Point. Rhaegar had decided as much when he grew sick of his son always getting into scuffles with other young men in the neighborhood. Jon had almost been done with his schooling when the war broke out, and as soon as one of his professors told him he'd likely rank a colonel if he left now, he dropped out of West Point and was sent to the Army of Georgia to serve under Major General Slocum. 

“Some of the slaves say there's a mighty large plantation if we just follow the western side of this river,” one of his privates, Tormund Giantsbane, informed. “Say the Missus is dripping in finery, and the Master’s got some gold tucked away somewhere.”

Jon mainly led raiding parties ahead of the main army, and his men were somewhat responsible for all the terror that several slaves had told them about. However, Jon tended to try and keep his hands clean; his men raided and stole from the families they came across, but he did not hold with rape. He knew other colonels and generals weren't as kind, but he thought of his sister Rhaenys back home and couldn't allow such things to be done to other women. 

“We’ll head on down that way, then,” he stated. 

Tormund has been one of Jon’s first companions when he’d joined up; most of the men in the Army of Georgia were southerners who had chosen to fight for the Union. To the good old boys, Jon had been a true Yankee Doodle Dandy, with his fine, fitted uniform and boots that never seemed to lose their shine. It hadn't been until they all had witnessed him kill a Confederate with his own Bowie knife that they all had realized that he was with them for a reason. The nicknames all stopped (“Lord Snow” being one of the most annoying, for his Northern roots), and the men he commanded grew to respect him.

But for all his heroics, it didn't change the fact that his father disapproved of him leaving school. Jon had been twenty when the war broke out, and now, at twenty-four, his father still acted as if he was a green boy who could be ordered about. 

Rhaegar Targaryen also disapproved of his son's politics. While off at West Point, Jon had slowly evolved into a staunch Republican. He had not been old enough to vote for President Lincoln in 1860, but he had passed his vote for him in the election of 1864 with pride. It had earned him the title of “family embarrassment,” though Rhaenys and his mother, Elia, both wrote to him and said that if they had the right, they would have voted for Lincoln as well. As old New York money, the Targaryens were supposed to subscribe to the ideal of “American exceptionalism” that the Democratic Party upheld; Jon, being the younger son and often ignored, had turned his nose up at the notion, and the Republican Party had been a far more progressive choice for him. That generally meant that politics were rarely discussed amongst his family. 

“Did any of them have a notion of how many miles we were from the plantation?” Jon inquired as he and Tormund began to ride forward. 

“No,” he sighed. “But if they're all coming from that way we can't be far.”

As they continued to follow the winding tributary, Jon looked out over the countryside. It was so different from the urban jungle he called home; the red dirt and old trees looked as if they'd been there for a thousand years, and Jon knew they'd be there a thousand more. There was something comforting in the fact that some things would remain the same, long after the War Between the States had ended, long after he and all his fellow soldiers had been buried in the ground. Try as he might, there was something romantic about the hills of Georgia that made a man believe in chivalry and nobility; perhaps, Jon wondered, that was why its young men lined up to die like dogs in the name of rebellion and an ancient practice that should have died with the birth of their nation. He imagined if he had grown up on a great plantation home that he would probably feel differently. 

But deep down Jon knew that was a lie. He'd seen the scars on the backs of black men and women both. How anyone could romanticize such a practice on fellow human beings was beyond him. And the supposedly worst master in the area was a man by the name of Joffrey Lannister. Slaves said he was a coward; he'd up and ran as soon as word came that scouting parties were coming closer to his home. Rumor also had it that the spineless man had left his wife, a young woman of twenty, behind. 

As the sun set in the west, Jon and his men stopped to make camp for the night. They pitched tents near the river, and Jon headed on down to try and wash. He stunk of sweat and horse, and he needed to remedy it immediately.

“I don't know why you bother,” Theon Greyjoy stated as Jon began to unbutton his jacket. “We all reek; isn't gonna make much of a difference to whatever fine lady awaits us at Casterly Rock.” Jon laughed to himself peeled off his waistcoat and shirt, shaking his head at Theon’s comment.

“I'm not bathing for some southern belle,” Jon replied. “I'm bathing because I stink worse than you, Greyjoy.” 

The cool river water felt like heaven on Jon’s skin. He dunked his head under the water and then scrubbed furiously at his scalp with his fingernails. His dark, curly locks had grown longer since he'd joined up, and it was rare that he found a barber of merit that he would trust to give him a trim. 

When he felt more refreshed, Jon climbed out of the river, grabbing his shirt and trousers and throwing them on rather sloppily, while draping his waistcoat and jacket over his arm. With his boots in one hand, he made his way back to his tent. After rolling out his bedroll, Jon laid down and tried to close his eyes. He'd become prone to nightmares in the past few months, and that night was no exception. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blood spluttering out of the mouth of a Confederate, but the solider always had his brother’s face. Jon would wake up in a cold sweat some time before the dawn, and would never manage to get back to sleep. 

As the sun rose, he emerged from his tent. The small camp was just beginning to wake, so Jon took his horse down to be watered before they continued their trek toward the plantation they'd been told about. He hoped they'd find some tobacco there; he'd ran out about a week ago, and he had a strong hankering for a nice cigarette. 

“Best get a move on,” Beric Dondarrion noted when Jon led his horse back to camp away from the water. “If the locals all know we’re coming, there probably won't be much left for us to take.”

The men were all assembled just after dawn and their long trek continued. 

“You know what I just realized about you, colonel?” Tormund remarked as they rode alongside each other. “You've never talked about some girl back home. Get half a swallow of whiskey in some of these boys and they'll prattle on about some pretty lass’s teats until your eyes roll back into your head. But not you, colonel. So it makes a man wonder; either you've got no girl back home, or you didn't leave on the best of terms.”

“It's both a touch of the former and the latter, I'll admit,” Jon sighed. “Met a fine girl, but from a poor family. She wasn't good enough for my family name, or so said my father. I fought him about it for weeks on end, but eventually she got sick of me trying to prove my father wrong. Never saw her again.”

“What was her name?” 

“Ygritte.” Jon recalled a flash of wild red hair and thought to himself about how he would likely never see hair so red ever again. Ygritte hailed from Ireland, and had been hired as a maid in his family’s home. That was how they had met. They'd managed to keep things quiet until Aegon walked in on them one afternoon in a position that would bring shame to any girl in a high enough station. Rhaegar had fired her practically on the spot, and Jon had gotten an earful about how a Targaryen should act. It hadn't worked, of course; Jon slunk down to the Five Points night after night just to see her. She'd called him a crazy fool for even wandering down there, but he had done it all for her. 

Tormund could tell his mind was off in a different place, so he didn't say a word. 

They marched for hours. Every once in a while they came upon a stray Confederate or two, and they would always be easily taken care of. Jon had the sense to ask them how far the nearest plantation was, and the man had spluttered out that Casterly Rock was about five miles downriver from where they were. 

“We’ll get there around nightfall,” Theon noted. “Torches?”

Jon shook his head. He had a strange feeling in his gut that they wouldn't want to torch Casterly Rock. Some part of him told him that he would find something very important there. “No,” he ordered. “Just a usual raid. And you know my rules: we must leave the womenfolk be.” 

It was a subject that he and Greyjoy often disagreed on. More often than not, Jon had been forced to make an example of him to his men. Theon wanted to have his way with the wives and daughters they came across; he figured if other raiding parties were doing the same that there was no harm in it. 

“Yes, Colonel,” Theon muttered. 

Just after dusk, the looming shape of an old plantation home came into view. It seemed all but abandoned; there were no slaves wandering around the yard, and no lights flickering in the windows. They all began to approach the home, when suddenly a single lamp was lit in an upstairs window. Jon ordered the men to halt, and they all watched as the shape of a pretty young woman appeared. Each man was almost transfixed as she began to undo the long line of buttons in the front of her bodice. Each man except Jon, who was staring at her face. Well, not her face. His gaze was fixed on the copper braids that framed her face like a halo of fire. Red hair. 

“Glory be,” Tormund whistled. “That is a rare woman.” 

If the woman in question was even aware that they were down in front of her house, she showed no sign of it. The men all gaped as she stripped down to nothing. Pale, flawless skin was bared to them all, complete with rosy nipples and a patch of red hair atop her mound that matched her hair. Their view was only momentary, however, as she slipped on a simple nightgown and blew out the lamp.

“Well, this will be quite enjoyable,” Theon grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "rare woman" line makes me think of Outlander, which I LOVE. There needs to be more Jonsa Outlander AUs in my humble opinion.
> 
> Jonsa meets next chapter! Get ready!
> 
> Thanks for reading and don't forget comments/kudos! I love hearing from you all!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paths cross, and stories get told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm gonna start by saying that I love that I have a little group of y'all that are enjoying this story; it makes me happy to see there is a little niche interest in this sort of fic.
> 
> Also, my updates could be few and far between now that I'm at school. Just letting you all know now.

Sansa had just settled into bed when the sound of breaking glass came from downstairs. She sat up, and sprang from her bed. With Joffrey gone, it was her job to try and protect herself—not that he would have tried. Yet all she had with her was a carving knife, and Sansa had never been the kind to even think about how to stab someone. Her sister Arya would have had an idea; Arya kept a small knife in her boot at all times, lest she needed to defend herself. Sansa wished she was there now, because Sansa wouldn't have been so afraid. The thundering sound of men storming up the staircase made Sansa’s heart pound. Her hands grew sweaty and she gripped the knife tighter. 

The door swung open and Sansa was quickly overpowered by the two men who hauled her from her bedroom. She thrashed and screamed, but they didn't bother. They dragged her down the staircase and into the parlor. Inside, a young man in a Union colonel’s uniform was smoking one of Joffrey’s cigarettes. 

“You're the lady of this house?” he asked. Sansa recognized a New York accent immediately. She wondered what a young man from New York was doing so far south. 

“Yes, I am,” Sansa replied. 

One of the men who had taken her from her room handed over the knife she'd been holding to the man. “Found this with her,” he told him. “She thought she'd be carving us all up for dinner.” A few of the soldiers laughed and Sansa looked down at her hands, blushing in embarrassment. The young colonel wasn't laughing, however. He moved closer to her, and Sansa glanced up at him before focusing on her hands again. 

“Your husband is Joffrey Lannister?” he questioned. Sansa nodded. “Where is he?”

“I don't know, colonel,” she answered. “He left without a word. I think he planned on leaving me here for you all to find. You see, I—“

“You're from Massachusetts,” the colonel finished. “Boston, I believe; it has been a long time since I've been up that way so my ear could deceive me.” Sansa brightened slightly at his recognition of her accent, and smiled. 

“Born and raised, sir,” she stated. “My… My husband, he was a student at Harvard when I met him. I didn't know… I was a stupid girl. Much too young to get married at the time…” 

Sansa allowed herself to look at him. The colonel was painfully handsome. Far more handsome than Joffrey. He looked like he could have belonged to the Booth family, with his dark, curly hair and brooding eyes. Sansa wondered if the young colonel from New York had ever seen one of the brothers perform on stage; surely if he resided in New York he had seen Edwin Booth perform before the war broke out. While she had never admitted it to her father, Sansa had loved the theatre. When first married, Sansa had begged Joffrey to plan a trip to Atlanta so they could see a show, but he didn't have the interest in such things. 

“And your family? Do they still reside in Boston?” 

Sansa was drawn from her thoughts. “My family still resides in Boston, yes,” she said. “My older brother was a member of the 11th Massachusetts. He… He died in Gettysburg.” One of the soldiers scoffed at her.

“How do we know she isn't lying?” he grunted.

A few of the men grinned devilishly and Sansa gulped. But her fears were quelled when the colonel gave them all a stern look. He reminded her of a wolf controlling his pack. It was a quality Sansa had never seen from Joffrey; he couldn't control anyone. Joffrey’s control stemmed from abuse of power. 

“What reason have I to lie to any of you?” Sansa remarked. “I am unarmed, I am a woman. My house is all but abandoned, my husband has run off…”

The colonel put out his cigarette in one of Joffrey’s favorite ashtrays, and turned to the decanter filled with bourbon. He poured himself a glass and sat down on the sofa opposite Sansa. She liked how the crystal tumbler looked in his hands. The colonel certainly came from money; it was evident by the way he carried himself. But why would a young man of means be fighting in the war? Surely his family could have paid his way out. Sansa wondered if he might have gone to West Point; Robb had been considering it, but then the war had broken out and he wanted to try and avoid fighting. 

“Tell me your story, then,” Jon told her. “Tell me about your family.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “I am the second of five children, three boys and two girls. My father is a Protestant minister and an abolitionist. His family came over to America on the Mayflower, or so the story goes. My mother, however, came to America in the late 1830s from Ireland. I… I get my red hair from her. She and my father met at an Independence Day celebration, and it was love at first sight. However, my maternal grandfather would not give his blessing because my mother’s family was Catholic and my father’s family Presbyterian. They eloped, and caused quite a scandal. My father almost didn't get to become a minister because of it. But he completed his schooling and my brother Robb was born the same year they married. I soon followed, then my sister Arya, then Brandon, and finally Rickon.”

The colonel sat back in his seat. “And how did you come to meet Joffrey Lannister, Miss…?” It dawned on him that he hadn't asked for her name.

“Sansa,” she provided. “And I suppose I ought to be Sansa Stark because I doubt I'll ever see my husband alive again. May I be so bold as to ask your name, colonel?”

“Jon Targaryen, of the—“

“New York Targaryens?” Sansa finished for him. “Your father is a member of Tammany Hall. Are you a Democrat, Mr. Targaryen? I can't imagine how that must feel, fighting Mr. Lincoln’s War.”

“I am a Republican, Miss Stark,” Jon retorted. 

Sansa rose from her seat and nodded. “Good,” she hummed. “You and your men are welcome here. As I'm sure you've discovered, I let all my husband’s slaves go as soon as he left. There’s plenty of room, and a decent store of food.” A few of the men seemed taken aback by her hospitality. “I am a Bostonian, first and foremost. And any Union boys are welcome in my home.” 

“And Colonel Targaryen is welcome between her thighs,” a sandy-haired private muttered, earning a laugh or two from some of his fellow soldiers. 

“Greyjoy…” Colonel Targaryen’s voice was filled with warning and Sansa bit back a smirk. 

“I hate to disappoint, Private Greyjoy, but I am a proper lady,” she stated. Her gaze met Jon’s, and she bit her lip slightly. “However, Colonel Targaryen is welcome to my husband’s bedroom. It is the largest room in the house, and I'm sure Joffrey left some cigarettes hidden away somewhere.” If his cheeks weren't as red as Sansa’s hair, Jon would have found it in him to thank her. Instead, he let her lead his men to the various rooms on the second floor. He lingered behind in the parlor, finishing his drink. His eyes drifted around the room, and he decided to peruse the bookshelf. When he was younger, he'd enjoyed reading before bed. None of the titles stood out to him; most of the volumes were about how to maintain a farm and how to plant cotton. He'd reached the very end of the bookshelf before a small volume caught his eye. It was a tattered copy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark that looked out of place among the others. The rest of the books looked practically untouched. Jon tugged it out and opened it. 

Inside, on the other side of the cover, Sansa had written her name. It was her maiden name, so Jon assumed she had brought the book with her from home. He flipped through the pages and noted that she had underlined passages, and took notes in the margins. 

“I put fresh bedsheets on the bed,” Sansa said from behind him. Jon jumped and closed the book, quickly turning to face her. “Pardon; I hadn't noticed you were reading… what caught your eye?” Her bright blue eyes locked on the book in his hands and she smiled. “That's one of my favorites. I've read it more times than I care to admit.” She clasped her hands daintily in front of herself and smiled. 

“Well from the appearance of things I’d reckon you're more well-read than your husband,” Jon chuckled. “The other books on the shelf look untouched.”

Her smile faltered slightly. “Joffrey was not an academic, I’m afraid…” she mumbled. A small wave of melancholy came over her before she remembered herself and turned her attention back to Jon. “Were you much of an intellectual before the war, Colonel?” Jon moved to sit on the edge of the chaise and shrugged his shoulders. 

“I kept up with my older brother in marks at school, but I was always more rowdy than he,” he admitted. “Aegon is a lawyer, and paid his way out of the war. I was at West Point when Fort Sumter happened, and I left as soon as possible.”

“You're a true patriot.” Sansa complimented. 

Jon shook his head. “No, just a spoiled boy looking for adventure,” he sighed. “I'd argue I've gotten my fair share these past few years.” The way his face fell was telling to Sansa; he'd seen many things, and some he was likely to never forget. 

“Where will you go? When it's all said and done?” she inquired. 

A small smile appeared on Jon’s face after a moment of thought. “West,” he replied. “Out to California, or some other place out there. Or maybe I won't settle anywhere; maybe I'll travel the Nile River, or trade for spices in the Orient. Anywhere is better than where I came from. The stuffy society balls, the debutantes fluttering their fans and gossiping. They all loved my brother. Tall, handsome Aegon… I swear he's as tall as they say President Lincoln is.” 

“And these society girls never paid you a second glance?” Sansa had to admit she was surprised; why would they turn their noses up at such a handsome young man?

“Some would,” Jon admitted. “But… they're all so… so…”

“Boring?” Sansa supplied. 

“Yes, boring,” he chuckled. 

They sat there in comfortable silence for a while. Sansa couldn't remember a time when she had felt comfortable sitting in the parlor with Joffrey for much longer than an hour. After a while, she yawned slightly. Jon noticed and rose to his feet, offering her his hand. 

“It's getting late,” he said. “Best get to bed. I hope my men don't bother you when they get up for the morning.” 

The reminder that the handsome, charming colonel would only be staying one night at Casterly Rock made Sansa’s heart sink. Some part of her had fashioned him as her knight in shining armor; the last chivalrous man in the United States that would spirit her back north so she could see her family again and leave Casterly Rock and Joffrey behind for good. Still, she took his outstretched hand and allowed him to walk her up the stairs. Her room was the second on the left, and Joffrey’s was right next door. She informed him of such, and Jon stopped in front of her door.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Miss Sansa,” Jon stated. “If there is anything my men or I can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask.”

Sansa’s mouth went dry, but she reminded herself that what she wanted to ask for was completely and utterly inappropriate. “Thank you, Colonel,” she smiled. “You'll find I'm an early riser, so I'll fix you all breakfast before you continue your march. Hope you all like hot cakes.” Jon’s stomach rumbled at the promise of a proper breakfast.

“Thank you again, Miss Sansa. Sleep well.” And with that Jon retired for the night, unnerved with the thought that a woman with such fine red hair was just a room away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Don't forget kudos/comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone settles in, but old faces return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to my small little group who enjoys this fic! You all keep me going, and make this worthwhile. I know kind of where I want this to end, but I haven't totally figured out how we're going to get there quite yet. Bear with me.

The house was silent, and Sansa found it easy to fall asleep knowing she was likely well-protected. Her mind could rest easy, and her dreams were pleasant. She dreamt of walking into a theatre in New York on the arm of a handsome young man, on their way to see a particular Shakespearean tragedy. It was a perfect dream. A dream that she was beginning to think she would like to make reality, if it wasn't for the fact that Joffrey was still out there somewhere. Perhaps if she asked Colonel Targaryen, he'd hunt him down for her and bring her his head. Though she imagined the colonel was above such barbarism. And of course he was; he was from an elite New York family. When he returned to the war, he'd probably be forced to marry one of the boring debutantes he complained of and settle in a fine townhouse with maids and cooks. While she would hopefully return to her family and stay in their tiny house in Boston right next to the church. It would be so sweet to see her father again, and her mother, and all her siblings. But she didn't belong with them. There was so much about her that they couldn't understand now. 

Sansa woke suddenly to the sound of shouting. It was coming from next door. She quickly sprang into action, lighting a lamp and carrying it with her a she hurried into the master’s bedroom. Colonel Targaryen was trashing about in his sleep, shouting incoherently. Sansa’s brows furrowed and she sat down on the edge of the bed. Her father had once told her that soldiers often suffered what he'd called “invisible wounds.” It seemed that the colonel had his fair share of them. 

Cautiously, she ran her fingers through his dark curls. Sansa nearly fell from her perch when the colonel’s hand flew up and grabbed her wrist, his eyes opening widely. Jon looked almost manic; the look in his eyes could only be described as that of pure terror. He looked to her in confusion and Sansa frowned.

“You were having a nightmare,” she said. “I could hear you all the way in the other room.” Jon slowly sat up. He still hadn't released her wrist from his hold, but Sansa didn't say a thing. 

“That tends to happen,” he mumbled. “Nothing I can't take care of myself.”

Sansa didn't believe him. Her father had spoken to men who'd returned from the Mexican-American War—which looked like a mere squabble compared to the current war—and they struggled so much with their nightmares and their experiences that sometimes faith wasn't even a comfort. Some in her father's parish had even taken their own lives. She could remember her father, when he thought he was alone before the funerals of those sad men, crying over their coffins. Many stopped coming to their church because her father had performed funerals for the men who'd committed suicide, but her father believed it was the right thing to do. It gave their families peace of mind. 

“Regardless, I’d feel better if you weren't alone,” Sansa told him. “A man’s mind can wander to dark places when left alone with his demons.”

“It wouldn't be proper, Miss Sansa,” Jon argued. “And I promise, I can handle myself.”

He was right as far as propriety went. For a woman who was still technically married to share her husband’s bed with a man she hardly knew would be absolutely scandalous. But Sansa didn't rightly care. And secretly sharing Joffrey’s bed with another man was a way of battling her own demons. 

At the beginning of their marriage, Sansa had enjoyed intimacy with Joffrey. Growing up as a minister’s daughter, she had been taught that sex was sacred and only for the purpose of procreation between a man and wife. But Joffrey had shown her that sex could be enjoyable, pleasurable even. It had made her feel so… enlightened. To know that she didn't just have to lay there while her husband thrust in and out of her repetitively was such a relief. The happiness didn't last, however. Sansa failed to conceive after nearly a summer of marital bliss, and Joffrey had cooled toward her. He stopped caring about her pleasure, and focused solely on spilling his seed inside her in the hopes that she would become pregnant. Joffrey even brought in a doctor from Atlanta to examine Sansa; the man had determined that she was healthy and should be able to become pregnant. Joffrey refused to accept that the issue was likely himself, and their marital relations came to an end. Their last night in bed together had been miserable; she had cried silently the entire time, praying for it to be over. She'd let her mind wander to a fantasy of Robb storming into the room and shooting Joffrey dead for mistreating his little sister in such a way. Of course, her heroic brother never came.

“Scoot over,” Sansa sighed. She walked around the other side of the bed and climbed in next to Jon.

“You know, I haven't shared a bed with the fairer sex since I was a boy,” Jon mused. “When I was small, my family would go upstate for the summer to get away from the city. My father had rebuilt the family’s summer home, you see. And whenever there was a big thunderstorm, I would run all the way down to the other end of the hallway and climb into bed with my older sister.” Sansa smiled sleepily at him.

“You were scared of thunderstorms?” she chuckled. 

“I was a boy,” he huffed, scooting closer to her. “But my sister always told me stories about how the thunder wasn't really anything to be scared of; it was just the drums of the heavens.” Sansa smiled.

“My mother always told my little brothers that the thunder was the Celtic god Taranis,” Sansa recalled. “She always had the most wonderful stories from her homeland.”

Jon admired the small smile on her face; he had to resist the urge to run his hand across her cheek and through her hair. His duty to the Union came first, after all, and he had to continue the ranging mission. “Well, perhaps when all of this is said and done you will get to tell those stories to your own children,” he murmured. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes and Jon frowned. “What is it? Can you not…?” Sansa realized what he was asking and shook her head.

“No, no,” she muttered. “As far as I know, I can. It… It is strange being in this bed not trying to…” Her face felt hot and she was glad the room was dark. 

A nervous chuckle escaped Jon’s lips. It certainly wasn't as if he wouldn't enjoy a good lay; but as he looked at her, every lesson on propriety and how to treat a lady that had been drilled into his head as a boy by his mother and father both came screaming back to him. “I understand that must be strange,” he agreed. “Goodnight again, Miss Sansa.” Before he knew what he was doing, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. His lips lingered perhaps a bit too long, but before she could say something he turned away from her and settled down to sleep. 

When Jon woke the next morning and Sansa was not asleep on the other side of the bed, he was convinced she was all a dream. Until, that is, he heard shouting and laughing from downstairs. He quickly threw on his jacket and boots, and went downstairs to the formal dining room. Sansa was serving his ranging party heaping plates of hot cakes. She even had molasses for them to pour on them. 

“You all are incorrigible!” she shouted as Theon made a go at her bottom, trying to give it a smack. “Your colonel will not be pleased when I tell him how you've been treating me!”

“No, I am not pleased,” Jon stated, shooting Theon a look.

The room grew silent as Jon sat down at the head of the table. Sansa stared at him with wide eyes and served him, blushing all the while. 

“Well, you are a wonder, Miss Sansa,” Tormund complimented. “To have such a good breakfast as this… I don't remember the last time I had such good coffee.” This brought a relieved smile to Sansa’s face, and she turned to head back into the kitchen. 

“Can I fry up some more bacon or ham for you boys?” 

Choruses of protests erupted from the stuffed men. She laughed and looked at Jon, raising an eyebrow in question. 

“None for me, but if you could fry up an egg?”

“I'll fry up two, since these scoundrels have eaten more than their fair share of everything else,” she told him. Jon thanked her and she disappeared into the kitchen. Sansa remembered how her father had always taken a similar breakfast, and nearly overcooked Jon’s eggs thinking about her father. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the handle of the pan she'd cooked in and carried the eggs straight out to the dining room. “Here we are… I hope you like them.”

“Where did you learn to cook, Miss Sansa?” Theon inquired as he finished his coffee. “I don't think I know of a single woman of your station who can cook as wonderful of a breakfast.”

“I'll remind you fine gentlemen that before I lived down here I was a minister’s daughter. I helped my mother feed our family quite often,” she explained. “It's not an easy task feeding a family of seven, especially when you have a grown man and three boys in the house. My father oversaw all of our educations, but my mother taught me all the proper skills a young woman ought to have before walking down the aisle.” 

“Then why does a girl like you marry a cunt like Joffrey Lannister?” Tormund asked.

“Language,” Jon scolded, feeling like a schoolmaster. 

Sansa shot him a look. “I have three brothers; my ears are not so pure,” she pointed out. “And to answer your question, private… I was a young sixteen-year-old girl. Joffrey and I met on Independence Day, just like my parents, and I thought it was fate. He'd seemed so… charming, at the time. I thought he was my knight in shining armor come to sweep my off my feet and take me away from the life I had deemed so boring. Of course, it wouldn't be until much later that I realized how wrong I was.” 

After Jon finished eating, Sansa cleared the table and walked them all out to the porch. 

“Are you sure there is nothing more we can do for you?” Jon asked, his hat tucked under his arm as he stood just past the threshold with Sansa. “I could send for some soldiers to watch over you, to make sure no one would come around—“ A bullet whizzed overhead, and they both ducked. Tormund fired off a shot in the direction the bullet had come from, and a few more of the men ran off. “You need to go inside!” Sansa did as she was told, and watched as Jon followed his men. She winced at the sound of exchanging gunfire, and hoped that she had not accidentally led the kind young men to their deaths. They had only been around a day and she already felt attached to them.

Thankfully, it had only been one man shooting at them, and he'd been a terrible shot. Jon came out of the woods, dragging a blond man behind him. He and his men took him into the parlor after making sure to tie his wrists and ankles. 

“Sansa, do you know this man?” Jon questioned. Sansa glared at the blond and nodded.

“I'm afraid so, colonel,” she answered. “Colonel Targaryen, meet my husband, Joffrey Lannister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Joffrey has returned to Casterly Rock. What do you think he's up to? What do you think will happen to him?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa didn't even know what she wanted to say to Joffrey. He sat on the sofa, looking up at her so smugly that it made her skin crawl. She hated that he could make her feel so uncomfortable even when she knew that if he even tried to make a move toward her that Colonel Targaryen would put a bullet in his head faster than she could say the word “help.” Her gaze drifted to the Smith & Wesson he had drawn, and Sansa wondered if he would do it if she asked. Technically, Joffrey had attacked them. Jon had every right to shoot him dead. 

“You little Yankee bitch,” Joffrey sneered. “Should have known I should have shot you when I had the chance. Of course you'd welcome soldiers from your side into my home. Fix them a nice meal, did you? I'll bet you did.” He turned his attention to Jon. “I'll tell you, soldier, just between you and me. The best meal she can give you? Right between those milky white thighs of hers. Sweeter than sugar, I swear it.”

Jon looked ready to punch his teeth out, but he didn't have to react. Sansa’s hand made contact with his cheek with such a loud slap that every man in the room winced. 

“You bastard!” she spat. “You're lucky I don't have these fine men string you up from an old oak tree for the way you’ve spoken to me!” Her chest heaved and Sansa could feel it tighten with the threat of tears. “Maybe I should. Maybe you deserve it.” A few of the men behind her snickered, and murmured amongst themselves about where they might find some rope. 

Sansa didn't even know what she had seen in Joffrey all those years ago. His golden hair and emerald green eyes were beautiful, but there was nothing handsome about him beyond that. He reminded her of a ferret, with the way he sneered and sniveled at others. She wished she had listened to her parents when they'd said he wasn't worthy of her, because it was painfully clear to her that he never had been. Not even when he had been the handsome young student who'd swept her off her feet. The ugliness in his heart was well-concealed, but to the critical eye it was all there if you looked for it. Joffrey smirked at her and she raised her hand to strike him again. 

“You should hang,” she hissed as she hit him once more. “It would give me great pleasure to watch you sway from the branches.” Sansa had struck him so hard that she'd split his lip. Blood trickled down his chin, a violent streak of red on his tanned skin. 

“Miss Sansa…” Jon’s voice was filled with warning. “I don't think you want to see—“

“I have seen,” she stated coldly. “I've seen a man’s corpse swinging from a tree more times than I care to admit. It’s one of his favorite pastimes. He lynched five of his slaves when we first came home as newlyweds. Didn't need any reason. Said he just wanted to celebrate. Lynched five more when he began to think I couldn't have children.” A hand wrapped around her wrist and Sansa clenched her fists, turning to face Jon. “I know you are a good man, colonel, but he is not. He doesn't deserve a clean, easy death. A bullet to the head is not half as much suffering as he deserves, believe me.” Her wrath returned to Joffrey and she grit her teeth. “And his blood isn't worth ruining such a fine piece of furniture.”

Joffrey’s eyes widened in horror when he realized that Sansa was really serious about having him hanged. He hoped that the young colonel she'd addressed would prove to be another noble Yankee fool, but as Sansa looked back at the young man and their gazes seemed to burn, Joffrey realized the colonel was going to do what Sansa wanted.

“Oh, I see,” he said shakily. “Already gotten a taste of her sweet pussy. Maybe even more than a taste, eh, colonel? Doesn't matter; that one’s broken so she's always available for a good time. Every one of your men could fuck her and she wouldn't get pregnant. Though I suppose that's part of the appeal.” It was Jon who lashed out then, grabbing Joffrey by his shirtfront and hauling him to his feet. Joffrey laughed in his face. “I don't know why you're so invested in her, colonel. She would be nothing without me. NOTHING. Just a little nobody preacher’s daughter with an annoying Boston accent.” His words made Sansa’s blood turn cold, but it had the opposite effect on Jon.

Jon’s temper had always mirrored his father's, and in that moment the Targaryen fire lashed out. He threw Joffrey back down onto the sofa and turned to his men. 

“Search for a length of rope and a good tree,” he ordered. 

A small smirk graced Sansa's face as Joffrey began to grovel pathetically to Jon. He fell off the sofa and got to his knees, trying to scoot after him as Jon walked over to the decanter of bourbon and poured himself a glass. He drank it quickly, as he wanted to steady his nerves. Jon had seen men get hanged before, but he had never been the one to put the noose around their neck. Somewhere deep down he realized he wasn't doing it because Joffrey Lannister was a monster or because he was a Confederate sympathizer; he was doing it for the beautiful, willful redhead that Lannister had taken to wife. It was foolish, as he would soon leave Sansa behind and she would have to fend for herself, but he was bewitched. He was bewitched, body and soul, by a woman he could not have. Fate always found a way to be cruel to him. She was everything he had ever wanted, but could never find in a woman. Sansa Stark carried herself with the grace and dignity of the silly debutantes who swooned for his brother, but had the fire in her that had drawn him to Ygritte. If things had been different, if they had met in a different time and place, Jon knew deep down that he would have made her his wife. 

He was drawn from his thoughts when his men returned. They had found a rope that already had been tied in a noose. Jon’s stomach clenched as he took it from them. Sansa followed him out into the yard. 

“His favorite tree is right here,” she said as they approached a tall, old oak tree. 

Tormund and Theon dragged Joffrey out of the house and threw him down at Jon’s feet. The noose was put around his neck, and then he was stood up. Jon threw the other end of the rope over the sturdiest branch. A light breeze blew through the trees, making the leaves rustle softly overhead. Sansa found it to be a pretty day to die. Far too pretty for the likes of Joffrey.

“Any last words?” Jon asked. 

“You think you're doing this for her,” Joffrey muttered. “But if you do it, you're no better than me, Yankee.” The words made Jon’s blood boil, and he tugged on the rope. Sansa stood beside Jon, watching as Joffrey’s body lurched into the air. Jon tugged until the ground was just out of reach for Joffrey’s feet, and then tied the rope around the tree trunk. 

It was a gruesome sight. Each of the men slowly retreated back to the house, but Sansa stood in front of Joffrey, watching as the light left his eyes. She wanted to make sure. She had to make sure it was done. That he was gone. Sansa knew she wouldn't be able to sleep well at night without having confirmation. 

When Joffrey had lynched his own slaves, Sansa had rarely witnessed such monstrosity up close. She usually could see the bodies swaying from the back porch, and never dared venture closer. The thought of dying in such a way used to make her sick to her stomach. Because of that, she hadn't known just how the head lulled to the side after the neck snapped, or how the face changed colors. She hadn't known just how dull and lifeless the eyes became after those initial moments of thrashing and struggling. The good Christian in her was disgusted by her delight in seeing her husband dead, but Sansa reminded herself that Joffrey has not been a good man, let alone a good Christian man. But how much better was she that she liked seeing his body swinging from a tree? Was she just as much of a monster as he? Had her time with him tainted her so she would never be the woman she once was? Her head began to spin with self-loathing and anger, and a gentle touch on her shoulder drew her away. 

“Sansa,” Jon murmured calmly to her. “It's done. He's gone. He's never going to—“

He stopped talking as she buried her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around his middle. Tears wet the front of his jacket, and at first Jon didn't know what to do. He'd been expecting her to thank him, perhaps, but not embrace him. Her slender shoulders shook with sobs, and he cautiously wrapped his arms around her. His fingers itched to touch her hair, and he did it without hesitation. The copper locks were soft and smooth beneath his callused fingers, and he found it amazing that she was beautiful even when she was crying. After a while, she pulled her head away from him, but didn't pull away far enough to remove herself from his arms. 

“Th-Thank you,” she mumbled. Jon unwrapped his arms from around her and wiped away the stray tears falling down her cheeks. “You… You sure you and the boys don't want to stick around another night or so? It's no trouble.” Sansa felt even more Christian guilt at the thought that her wanting him to stay was not purely kind hospitality, but stemmed from greedily wanting him to stay by her side. 

Jon’s gaze flitted to the dead man behind them. If they were wise, they'd bury his body. He could make an excuse to stay one more night with her for the sake of burying him. 

“I think we could stay one more night,” Jon smiled. “But first, we’ll need to cut him down and bury him. Won't want anyone seeing him and getting curious.” Sansa nodded in agreement. With Beric and Tormund’s help, Jon got Joffrey down and they started to dig a hole a few feet away from the very tree they'd hung him from. When it was deep enough, Joffrey’s body was thrown into the simple grave. Sansa stood over it, fists clenched at her side. Jon watched her, wiping sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. He'd shed his jacket for the task of burying Joffrey. Much to his surprise, Sansa spat down at Joffrey. Her saliva landed right over his right eye, and shined in the early afternoon sun. Slowly, Jon, Beric, and Tormund shoved dirt back on top of him. 

Sansa left before the task was done. Joffrey was dead, and that was all she needed to know. When she reached the house, she did something she rarely did and poured herself a drink. The other men had convened in the parlor, and watched her in shock. 

“What? You think a woman like me can't drink?” she questioned. 

None of them had the nerve to speak to her, after seeing her steely indifference toward her husband's death. They certainly were not scared of her, but had a newfound respect for just how tough their host was. 

Jon came back in around an hour later to find the men had all went to their rooms. And lounging on the sofa was a very drunk Sansa Stark, giggling at the sight of him like a silly schoolgirl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this hasn't been updated guys! College has hit me like a bus a bit. But I hope you all liked this chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa had never been so drunk in her entire life. Not even on her wedding night had she drank enough to make herself an absolute mess. When she looked at Jon and noticed his concern, he looked so funny to her that she laughed so hard she fell off the sofa. Her breath reeked of alcohol, and her usually neat hair and clothes were mussed from her fall. Even in her disheveled and intoxicated state, she was still beautiful in Jon’s eyes. 

“Oof!” she exclaimed, giggling as she sat up. “The room is… spinning…” An eruption of more giggles escaped her lips and Jon frowned.

“You've never been drunk before, have you?” he asked her gently as he slowly helped her to her feet. She lurched in his grasp and found herself pressed against his chest. Another giggle fell from her tongue and while Jon was annoyed, the sound was likely the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. “Alright, off to bed with you.” Her hazy eyes focused on him at that, and Jon sighed. “To sleep, Miss Sansa. Nothing more.” 

“If you say so!” she laughed. 

As she staggered around, Jon realized she was far too intoxicated to make it up the stairs without falling flat on her face. He rolled up his sleeves and stood behind her, quickly picking her up and carrying her up the stairs. Sansa stared up at him as he did, and hummed something that sounded suspiciously like Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” It occurred to him that it would only make sense that her husband had carried her up these stairs all those years ago, as so many men did after carrying their new bride across the threshold of their home. 

“You'd be handsome at a wedding,” she mumbled, resting her head against his chest. “Hell, you'd be handsome anywhere. Sure were handsome when you hanged my husband. Thank you for that, by the way. I wasn't truly gonna mind if you blew his brains out onto the parlor floor, but seeing him hang was so… so…

“Poetic?” Jon provided. Sansa nodded. 

“Yes, that…” she muttered before hiccuping. “I think I drank too much.” A soft chuckle escaped Jon’s lips and she smiled dreamily. “I like the way you laugh. Reminds me of my father… why do I always like men who remind me of my father?” 

He set her down for a moment when they reached her bedroom, and opened the door. “Well, from what you've shared, it seems to me that your father was a good man, Miss Sansa,” he explained. “So you keep trying to look for a man as good as him.” Slowly, he helped her into bed, pulling the blankets up over her. 

“Stay!” she demanded, grabbing his hand. “Please?” Another girlish giggle fell from her lips.

“I'm sorry, Miss Sansa, but it wouldn't be proper—“

“Oh, fuck propriety!” Sansa slurred. “I… I am alone, and I'm scared, and you are a handsome man who I want to share my bed with me! Simple as that!” Jon sighed and began to kick off his boots before climbing in bed with Sansa. She turned toward him and snuggled against him, sighing. “You’re always warm… like a big puppy…” 

He would have replied, but Sansa was soon snoring softly. With a small smile, he ran a hand through her hair as gently as he could. The smooth strands of copper felt unbelievably soft, and fell around her face like a halo of fire; it framed her peaceful face that was flushed from drink.

“Goodnight, Sansa,” he murmured, and, against his better judgment, pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head.

The following morning, Sansa woke up to find her head felt like it had been run over by a train. She groaned, and as her eyes opened a crack, she soon realized that someone was in bed with her. A quick examination of her person confirmed she was still in her dress from the day before, so she had not made any loose and despicable decisions while drunk. The person in bed with her turned out to be the colonel, as her senses came to her gradually. He stretched and looked at her with a small grin.

“Nothing happened,” he assured her. “Though you did compare me to a puppy. And giggled like a silly little girl when I said I was taking you to bed.”

Sansa blushed. “I’m afraid I don’t remember most of that,” she admitted. As she slowly sat up in bed, her stomach lurched. Thankfully, Jon had expected her to be ill that morning, and grabbed a porcelain chamber pot, handing it to her to be sick in. She retched, and admittedly felt much better after ridding her stomach of its contents. Jon climbed out of bed and tugged on his boots. “Wait! Don’t… go.”

“I’m not leaving,” he assured her. “I’m just going to see if there’s something in the kitchens that will help soak up all of… that.” He motioned to the chamber pot. “I doubt you want to get sick again?’ 

“I would prefer not to be,” she muttered. “There should be a small bottle of painkillers in the pantry as well, if you please?”

Without another word, Jon went downstairs to retrieve what Sansa requested. He returned with the aforementioned bottle, and some cold cornbread for her to munch on to try and quell the assault she was under from her stomach. She accepted both gratefully, and took the pills without question. A silence fell between the two of them, and eventually Sansa spoke. Her voice was hoarse, and she winced at how awful she sounded. She imagined she looked just as terrible.

“When do you plan to leave for good?” she questioned.

Jon took a deep breath and looked at her. He had yet to confer with his men, but he had made his mind up on what they were going to do. It hadn’t been an easy decision; he was sure his commanding officer would not approve of him abandoning his ranging duties for the sake of a woman he had known for the span of a day or so. Still, it pained him to think of what would happen to her if she was left alone to fend for herself. Jon knew that some Union boys would not take so kindly to her story and would likely try to have their way with her. And he would not that happen, as much as he wanted to have her for himself. Her husband’s statement about her sweet taste made his mouth water, and every time he thought of finding himself in such a situation with her his cock stirred. It crossed his mind that she had never been with a Northerner; Jon imagined it would be an honor to be the first Union man to have her.

“Not until the Army of Georgia has marched through these parts,” he told her. “Perhaps longer. I… I care for your safety, Miss Sansa. And I know there are not many men who would be as honorable as I have been toward you.”

Her eyes shined with such appreciation that Jon almost felt disgusted with himself for thinking about what it would be like to shove his cock into her cunt. 

“Thank you,” she stated. “You have no idea how much this means to me…”

“You are very welcome,” he returned. “And if there is ever anything my men or I can do for you, please, do not hesitate to ask.” Once more, a silence fell between the two. Jon looked down at his boots before looking right back up at her. Sansa’s gaze was fixed on him, and his heart pounded. “I… I was also thinking that… that when we see the end of this cursed war that I would help you find your way home.” 

“That would require you stay here with me until the war is over,” Sansa remarked coyly. “Speak truly, colonel; have you developed feelings for me as I have for you?”

Jon blinked. Truly she did not reciprocate the feelings he had begun to feel for her? She had been playful and coy with all of his men; her affections could not stretch beyond gratitude for ridding her of her husband and appreciation for his protection. Surely she was not attracted to him? After all, she had married a golden-haired young man. Sansa would prefer his brother over him. Jon was sure of it. Aegon would be able to make her laugh, and have her on his arm in the blink of an eye. 

“You… You…” he stuttered. 

Cautiously, Sansa climbed out of bed and walked over to him. He had never noticed what a tall woman she was; even without her shoes on she stood just as tall as he did in his boots. “Yes, colonel,” she said. “I have strong feelings for you. I have not figured out just how strong they are yet, you see, and I fear your feelings will likely affect how I feel.”

“I… I think I am in love with you, Miss Sansa,” he managed. 

She said nothing for a long time. The last time a man had told her he loved her… well, it had to have been Joffrey, but she couldn't remember when. He'd said it a lot, in the beginning. But in the last year or so, Sansa was certain the phrase had never left his mouth once. And now here was a man—a noble, kind, good-hearted man—who had known her for less than two days and claimed he was in love with her. Her old self would have swooned to hear such words from such a handsome young man. But Sansa felt… sad. Not in a sense that she could cry or she was disappointed that he returned her affections, but sad that she had found a good man in such dire circumstances. It was very possible, she knew, that he could be ordered to leave her. It was very possible that he could share the same fate as Robb, and be left bloated and rotting on some battlefield somewhere, eyes glassy and dull as they stared up at the sky. 

“I was afraid of that,” she mumbled. “We… I… I can't lose another person in this damned war. It's hard enough knowing I will never see my brother again. And even though… even though I have only known you for the short amount of time we've spent together, it you… died… I…”

He reached out and gently cupped her face in his hands. It was a tender gesture; something that had been unusual for Joffrey to do.

“I am not going to die on you,” he swore. “I promise you.”

Sansa shook her head. “Don't make promises you can't keep, Colonel Targaryen,” she whispered. Her brows furrowed as she stared into his eyes, and she wanted nothing more than to kiss him just once to know how his lips felt against hers. “If your commanding officer orders you to the front, that is where you will go. You are a soldier, first and foremost. I'll not be responsible for your dereliction of duty.”

At that, he laughed. Sansa’s heart ached because he had one of the warmest laughs she'd ever heard. It truly did remind her of her father’s. She wanted to imagine that Eddard Stark would approve of the young man before her; he was gentle, strong, and kind. He was everything her father had wished for her, once upon a time. Jon was everything Joffrey hadn't been, and never had there been such opposite men. Joffrey had shone like the morning sun, but his soul was as black as the darkest night. Jon was dark and mysterious, but had a heart of gold. Sansa would never tell him, but she had already dreamt of the two of them back in New York, settled in a cozy townhouse with a cook and a maid. He'd work for the Republican Party, and she would keep the children in line, mind the house, and whatnot. It was… perfect.

“I would go through a lifetime of dishonorable discharges if it meant spending the rest of it with you,” he told her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this satisfies you all for some time! I am stuck on Chapter 7 and cannot get anything rolling at the moment. Ah college, the drainer of all life forces.

**Author's Note:**

> So now we all see why the war has taken so much from Sansa; hopefully a handsome Yankee colonel can change that around for her!
> 
> Don't forget kudos/comments! And thanks for reading!


End file.
